


hold you down (make me the enemy)

by colferstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bad Parenting, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words start to appear in his mind, quiet at first, a throttle of: <i>“Notice me”</i>, <i>“I am your son, do something,”</i> and the worst, <i>“Why don’t you love me anymore?”</i> before it descends into this madness, pelts of greys and anger and disorientation that crowds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold you down (make me the enemy)

**Author's Note:**

> This bad boy really took it out from me and yes, there's no porn, sadly but I've invested a lot of emotions on this-- take it as a trial writing because I've never been good at angst. Short term angst, sure, but to drag it out into a whole major fic, fuck no. I'm not good at that, so hopefully this fic isn't completely... horrible.
> 
> I kind of gave up correcting grammar and typos around the mid of this fic, I apologize!
> 
> Okay, before I start, I took a teen wolf prompt and completely... went insane with this. It's not exactly how the OP wanted and I've made so many changes, like A/B/O dynamics are a little different in this fic, as requested by OP, so hopefully, I've done some justice! You can find the original prompt: [here](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/2665.html?thread=457321#t457321)
> 
> Now, let the fic begin!

Stiles is barely ten, just a month scraping towards his birthday, when his mother passes. She goes fast, withering before his eyes with each day that passes as the cancer spreads, cruel and rough until it suffocates her and she whispers her last words.

He was too young to understand them, too naïve to grasp the true meaning of death because it’s _foreign_ , he’s never known any of his grandparents before, but he’s still wise enough to know that she’s never coming back when the doctors pull the sheet over her face.

Yet, for months after she passes, he sits by the front door and waits for her to return home. It’s silly and childish to _want_ it but he still hopes. To watch her skip idly through the front gate, body alight with movement, an 80’s song humming jovially under her breath and her wavy brown hair bouncing with the wind.

Stiles misses her passionately and the feeling never goes away despite the many child therapists and grief counsellors his dad urges him to see. Dad says it’s a way to deal better with his emotions but he thinks it’s mostly because he can’t deal with _him_ , a little brat that is starting to act out.

He sees them anyway, just to appease his dad and even though they’re paid to care about him, it’s oddly enough to tide him through. They tell him that it’s okay, it’ll get better with time and maturity as long as he continues to speak to someone; it’s all going to be okay.

Stiles often scoffs at them.

The bouts or symptoms of depression (that’s what _they_ say too) sets in when he’s fourteen. Around the time when the hormones start to kick in and then he’s just— _angry,_ all the damn time.

He scuffs his shoes on purpose against the panelling of the walls at home until the paint turns into unkempt shoe marks, dirty and in bursts of mud and grass. When his dad finds out, he yells at him, wild eyes and whiskey breath but he’s two months late and Stiles’ already picked up another habit of channelling his anger.

Stiles flips him off anyway.

He starts seeing Chanel as a punishment by his dad. She’s a psychiatrist and she’s one of the nicer pseudo therapists he’s been sent to see in years, the only one that never pushes. She’s probably in her late forties, wrinkles starting to creep at the softened edges of her face, but she exudes this radiant buoyancy of calmness that he finds himself getting attached to.

Stiles begins to look forward for their sessions and he sinks into the couch every time he visits, letting the mellow tone of her voice wash over him. She prescribes a couple of pills for him and he nods his head, letting her educate him about his hyperactivity disorder in a way that doesn’t sound belittling at all.

It doesn’t immediately get better. His grades do slip up a couple of times when couple of the medication acts wry with each other and it deflates his appetite to the point where it worsens his concentration. But after a third change, emotions start getting more subdued, the keen urge to punch his fist through the walls slowly fade.

Stiles is sixteen by then, and that’s when everything starts to crumble once again.

-

The feeling gradually builds and it’s been buzzing under his skin for weeks now but it’s never gotten _this_ bad, so mindless, and vibrating, and _alive._

Stiles wants to speak up, he does, but whenever he’s due for a session and they ask their routinely questions of how is he doing or how is he feeling this week, his mouth closes up dry and the sweat pools at his armpits and at the small of his back until they finally get annoyed with waiting for an answer and continue their mandatory session with other exercises.

He tries it with his dad too but it’s— _difficult_.

The tension that hovers between them whenever they’re in the same room is thick and palpable ever since she left. It hasn’t been easy, feels like he lost both his parents the morning she took her last breath and Stiles is… frustrated because— _because_ he knows he doesn’t deserve this. Knows that it’s not his or anyone’s fault but blames himself anyway because there’s no other people to point fingers at.

Stiles then starts doubling his doses with his medication because they start to flush out even faster, leaving him drained yet strung tight at the end of the day. He knows it’s not a smart move, been ingrained by many doctors that tells him uniformly that he should stay in the required prescriptions and that too much of a good thing doesn’t make it better.

But he can’t—can’t _think_ , thoughts going in all directions and it’s _suffocating_ , trying to keep up. His skins itches all day and thick, red welts of fingernail tracks start to appear along his arms and thighs because he starts scratching at them, feels the removal of _too much_ gets replaced with this undignified pain.

It’s not much but enough.

His dad does a poor job at noticing even though he’s all over the place. He’s jumpy, touching corners and running his hands against bannisters, or the way he starts playing with his food during dinner (piling the mashed potatoes together, pressing them flat on his plate again, and then doing it again) and altogether stops doing groceries down at the organic store in town.

The words start to appear in his mind, quiet at first, a throttle of: “ _Notice me_ ”, “ _I am your son,_ do something,” and the worst, “ _Why don’t you love me anymore?_ ” before it descends into this madness, pelts of greys and anger and disorientation that crowds.

Chanel notices though, brows furrowing when Stiles steps into her office on their weekly sessions on Thursdays and there’s this weakened belief of relief tightening at his chest, spurring.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, scooting to the edge of the couch.

“Nothing,” Stiles forces out with a shrug as he folds himself onto his usual seat. He hates how the word leaves his mouth too, heavy and wrong as it sits, _lingers_ , in the air.

“Doesn’t look like it’s nothing,” Chanel continues and Stiles feels the dread pooling at his fingertips because he _likes_ her. Not in that fashion of sense because he thinks that he’ll never be normal enough to feel that momentous adolescent happiness of chasing that type of putrid goodness, not after everything.

She’s still pushing regardless, urging, and Stiles’ seconds away from snarling at her.

“ _Don’t_ —” Stiles grits and he’s breathing heavily, jaw clenching. The premature urge to rip at his sleeves to scratch his emotions out starts to gnaw ugly at his palms, digging and in currents. “—do _that_. Don’t. We were _good_ ,” He struggles. “Our dynamic. I’m _fine_ , it’s nothing.”

“You’re shaking.” Chanel observes quietly and she doesn’t have her pen and paper to jot down any notes this time. It’s just personal observance from one person to another and it shouldn’t feel like his world is going to crash with this small multitude of kindness—it shouldn’t.

“Stiles, I made a promise to you and the contract we’ve both signed that whatever we share in this room doesn’t leave and it only sits on paper. Not to my colleagues, not to the upper-heads that run this company and not to your father either.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes close, feel the waves destroying him internally to the point that he’s slowly shattering.

“You’re paid to care.” He implies rudely instead, tastes the bitterness of his tone as he swallows thickly. “You and _everyone_ I’ve been shoved to see are paid for an hour a week just to talk to me and you know what? I’m okay with that. Content, really.”

“I love my job.” Chanel says after a beat, pursing her lips.

Stiles gusts out shakily because he knows the truth, has it embedded in his brain ever since he saw his first therapist at ten but to be faced with the honesty of it? It’s like even though he’s guarded himself, has hardened himself to it, it still _hurts_.

“The money is great, sure, but before that it’s _passion_ , Stiles. I won’t be doing this if I don’t have the initial intent to empathize and care. Even if I’m being paid nuts and sweets, I’ll still be doing my job.”

Stiles’ mind starts to reel and he feels his breath quickening, coming in bouts and distorted and he feels weak trying to pull in each breath into his lungs.

“I _care_ , Stiles, for all my patients.” Chanel tells. “You may not be able to face that truth which is fine because I know how it looks from your perspective; I’ve seen my own fair share of counsellors. Doctors get sick, too, you know? But I’m here, I’ve been here for the past two years and you’ve made leaps of amazing progress and I don’t want to watch you be that shell of a person when you first walked into my office. I won’t allow it. You’re strong, kid, stronger than you believe to be.”

There’s a wetness that catches at the back of his throat and Stiles realizes he’s crying, entire body shaking with his emotions while his fingers curl and uncurl at the hem of his shirt.

This is it, his opportunity, and he’s terrified of the unknown that leads with it, hates that he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, the fact that he doesn’t have any semblance of control in regards to his own body.

“I don’t—” He hiccups on a sob and presses the sleeve of his shirt against the leaking mucus at his nostrils. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. _God_ , what’s wrong with me, Chanel. I’ve got—got no idea what’s going on half of the time.”

“Maybe start with how you’re feeling?” Chanel tries. “It’s okay, we’ve got time.”

Then the words start to roll off his tongue, unhesitant and loose. He knows he stuttered with a couple of sentences, garbled and in meshes but it all eventually squeezes out of him until he’s left unwinding on the chair, empty and exhausted.

Chanel keeps quiet throughout the entire time he’s talking, leaving a couple of acknowledged hums to let him know she’s still with him as she starts to jot down a couple of notes on her chart.

When Stiles is done, completely wordless and mind infinitesimally light for the first time in weeks, he realizes the entire hour has been burned out and Chanel is staring at him, curious and concerned. She finally speaks up after a pregnant silence that trebles between them.

“Was any of your parents a part of The Sector, Stiles? Your dad or, your mother?”

Stiles flinches a little bit.

It still feels iffy whenever someone mention about her. It has been his little secret to harbour, to distant away and sweep under the rug yet it still creeps up in conversations. He knows it’s not healthy, knows that the main reason why he’s doing these sessions is to refrain that but he likes that denial, prefers to separate himself from that part of his life even though she— _they_ —are, _were_ , his universe.

He slowly blinks up at her, owlish and feels the caking of tears that have been dried start to crack at the corner. “I—I don’t know?” He admits. There’s a familiarity of those words she said that’s still ringing at the back of his head though, in some distant part of scattered memories. “The term though, I’ve heard it before. Somewhere.”

“This may be a little out of my league and I am brave to admit that it may be travelling to areas where I have not been trained or studied on,” Chanel tells him softly but her voice carries guilt which Stiles hates coming from her. “But I have a couple of names on people whom I know that expertise in that area and are also professionals in their work ethics. I could give you their name cards if you’d like?”

Stiles feels thrown out of loop and despite still soaring with the adrenaline of his impromptu emotional release, the cloudiness from before starts to seep back slowly and it’s macabre how beautiful the transition is.

“I know you’re confused about the things I’m saying right now and I wish I had some answers to relieve you with.” Chanel imparts and she looks wistful, almost upset that she isn’t able to deliver anything for him today. “But some of the things that you’re going through aren’t exactly… in this particular field. Do you understand what I’m saying, Stiles?”

He bites his tongue, feels the wheels running in head and blurts, “You think it has something to do with the sector?”

“I know it does,” Chanel answers and she’s padding quickly to her desk, rifling through the drawers. “I’m in no particular position to give away any further details as they could be false information but… here.” She passes him a card which Stiles slowly retrieves from her, hands still shaky. “He’s the best guy I know that works in this field. I’ll call him immediately to arrange an appointment for you.”

“Okay,” He says dumbly, flipping the name card around to read the words.

_Hale Insight Inc. / Dr. Derek Hale, PhD / Alpha /  
Senior researcher and Psychologist in Human Ethology Sector_

The dull fonts start to wear in his head as it gets repeated over and over until he feels his eyes are crossing. There are so many unfamiliar terms but yet it feels like it _should_ be something he should have already known, the way how expectation grows because he expects. Also, the way Chanel has reacted to the situation leaves him uneasy, the bottom of his stomach just hovering between anxiousness and disbelief.

Stiles feebly thanks her, giving her a strained smile. He knows it’s too forced, feels it in the way his cheeks are quivering with the stretch of long term unused muscles but he doesn’t like seeing her like this, like _her_ , as it never truly was her battle to fight from the start.

“I’m not crazy though, right?” Stiles jokes, trying to ease the tension and maybe it’s his way of asking if he’s still supposed to see her.

Chanel chuckles and something swells in him that feels a lot like fondness. “Not a chance. I’ll call you soon to confirm the appointment, alright?” She says and pulls the door of her office open to let him out. “Same time, next week?”

“Same time, next week.” Stiles agrees.

-

Stiles is alone at home when Chanel gets back to him by day break.

His dad has been picking up double shifts on alternate days, has been doing it for the past five years even though Beacon Hills has never had high traffic crimes, and it’s usually on the days whenever he has an appointment. He doesn’t think too much of it, knows that it’ll lead to nowhere or to somewhere that he doesn’t want to tread on.

Anyway, his breath catches when he picks up the call.

“Chanel,” Stiles greets and it’s weird doing this, talking to her casually on the phone without the implications that he’s her patient and there’s no ability to see how she reacts whenever he replies to a question she asks.

“Stiles,” She replies and she sounds lighter, less disappointment dripping from her voice. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Dr. Hale and I’ve managed to squeeze you in for tomorrow at half past three. Would that be fine with your school schedule?”

“It’s fine,” He assures, running through his timetable mentally. “I don’t do any co-curricular activities so school’s out by noon. I’ll be there.” There’s a pregnant beat as though she’s waiting for him to unleash out any further question but he bites the bait and says instead, “Thanks, again. I mean, this definitely wasn’t in your job scope and—I understand now.”

Chanel laughs softly, daintily, “That’s alright, Stiles. I knew where you’re coming from. But,” She pauses. “Would you be telling your father about tomorrow’s appointment?”

Stiles sits on it for a second, makes a noise through his nose when he comes to no conclusion. “Maybe?” He gusts out. “I don’t know. Maybe not.” And pushes down the words that he wants to say like _he wouldn’t care_ or _he’s never home long enough to know what’s going on with me._

Chanel hums noncommittally, “It’s your call. Like I said, whatever we’ve spoken about wouldn’t leave the office as long as it’s not directly linked to harmful instances that you would take approach to.”

“Okay,” He affirms and wonders if he had told her he’s been scratching his skin raw, if that would fall under that category, thinks if she would have informed his dad about it.

Stiles doesn’t let himself ponder on that further than it needs and instead, thank her again, genuinely this time, before ending the call on a good note.

The night that follows isn’t better than the previous night, he still tosses around in bed and bites on his bottom lip until the skin breaks and the blood sweetens on his palate but he still manages to fall into a restless slumber which Stiles counts it as a blessing.

-

After school, Stiles takes the jeep down to the address that’s printed in a small font on the name card. It’s a little earlier than the appointed hour that was arranged, so he doddles at the street corner, kicking up scrapes of balled up flyers and empty soda cans.

It marvels him how he’s drove down this part of Beacon Hills a couple of times whenever he’s heading into town but has never seen or realized that there’s a huge building here, overshadowing the other small shop houses. He blames it on his complete lack of observation outside the things that are revolving in his life, could you blame him?

There’s a large overhead signboard at the side, too, with the words ‘Hale Insight Inc’ in a chunky, bold font and then below it, ‘Specialization in Sector Initiation and Mental Health’.

Stiles scoffs at the last two words because _mental health_ , like, really?

What does that even mean? That, supposing, that there are actually miraculous cures for some forms of mental illness in which they specialize in?

Stiles starts laughing when a morbid fantasized idea pops in his head where he’s going to take a step in for his appointment, be inserted a needle that injects some type of genius formula into his brain to sort shit out and then he could scurry along, all fine and dandy.

Sadly, it’s an ironic laughter, though, because he wouldn’t mind that—to not _need_ to take six different types of pills every twelve hours just to feel normal. Or abnormal, because his ‘normalcy’ is the reason why he’s taking them in the first place.

When the florist starts giving him odd looks from her busking stand because he’s cackling bitterly to himself, he flips her off.

-

“I have a three o’clock appointment?” Stiles babbles and his body is feeling too twitchy as he takes in the unfamiliar surroundings. He’s pulling onto the drawstring of his hoodie, twirling them around his fingers until they’re on the edge of too tight and they start to purple before he releases them. “I— _uh_ , Chanel helped book it for me?”

The lady, a blonde with curls that looms down to her waist, gives him a put off look from behind the counter before she sweeps her eyes to her computer screen. “Your name’s Stiles?”

“Yeah,” He says and when she shoots with him another look, more tinged with annoyance, he corrects. “Yes, it is. Stiles. Uh, Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski.”

“You’re early.” She rolls her eyes and shoves him a chart board with a flourish. Stiles immediately notes her down as the rudest administrative service, and he’s come across _many_ of them. “Here, go fill in the forms while you wait. Also, if you’re below eighteen, have a parent or guardian to sign them and bring it back for the next appointment.”

“Sure, okay.” He says hurriedly and pries them off her scarily manicured nails. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, kid.” She tells flippantly. “Now, get.”

Stiles scrambles away, accidentally tripping on his shoelaces.

-

“You’re up, Stilinski. First room on the right.”

Stiles snaps his head up when that lady, Erica, he presumes her name is that because she greets in in a bored voice for any intercom calls that gets transferred to her, yells for him and he quickly pushes off his seat. His nerves are buzzing under his skin, setting him more on edge and the urge to put his fingers into his mouth to chew all his nails off starts to feel like a challenge rather than a notion.

He gives her a two finger salute just to busy his hands, and also because it’s good to have manners, but Erica isn’t too fond of them as she shoots her this _fuck off and prepare your death_ expression.

He ducks the corner, finding the door she’s talking about and hesitantly raps his knuckles on it, just three quick successions that sounds too loud in his ears.

A voice rings through the thin door in a beat, “ _Come in._ ”

Stiles lightly pushes the door open and steps through the threshold.

The first thing that comes to mind immediately as he quickly scans around the room is that it’s too different from all the other offices he’s ever been to for sessions. Instead of it being in usual mellow browns and soothing beiges, the walls are monochrome, making the setting more stifling that it already is, and the office doesn’t even _have_ a chaise lounge.

It’s too sleek, too sharp cutting at the edges and Stiles, fuck, he isn’t _ready_ —he can’t do _it_ —and takes a step back towards the door, clutching onto the door handle a little too hard until he feels it digging into his palm.

He’s panicking and doesn’t even realize that the man sitting at his desk is observing him quietly, watching him with a curious expression before he finally speaks up, voice an octave higher than Stiles expects from his peripherally glanced muscular built.

“Take a seat.” The man says softly.

Yet, it sounds like an order, feels like one too because his limbs start moving on its’ own accord and Stiles can’t stop them, the pull and stretch of his tensed muscles struggling as he sits himself down on one of the large armchairs in front of the desk.

“What the _fuck_?” Stiles shoots out, legs shaking with effort while his palms are cold with sweat before he snaps his head up to glare at the man (yeah, pun intended because screw _the man_ for fucking his life over too).

He looks silently amused, a faint smile wavering at his mouth and Stiles feels the flare of anger building and coiling tight at the pit of his stomach. The irrefutable fact that it’s apparently _hilarious_ to this guy that some stranger he has never met, a teenager who is barely seventeen, is struggling taming his own limbs is apparently the damnest thing.

“Fuck you,” Stiles snaps, heat running in his veins, replacing that unorthodox misplaced energy inside him. “I’m not the damn circus and I’m not going to pay you to laugh at me. Damn it, this is a bad idea. Getting persuaded by _her_.” And his voice bites off bitterly.

The guy straightens his posture, apparently coming into some sort of conclusion that he’s actually stepped on some toes. Pesky, irritated toes.

“I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. Especially when there are circumstances that haven’t been unexplained.” He starts, tightening his frown. “I’m Dr. Hale, but please, call me Derek.”

Stiles is still juggling with the unexpected burst of his anger but then his words begin to echo in his head until he finally makes the connection a couple of seconds later, realizing it was _his_ name card that Chanel gave to him.

The high hopes he had previously, the misconceived idea that this guy could be his saving grace, gets slammed into disappointment.

This is _why_ people shouldn’t hold expectations in the first place and he curls into himself, hating himself a little for it, for wanting; and quells the urge to smack himself up the head, muttering _you stupid little shit. Haven’t you learnt that expectations are built on dashed promises and unjust realism?_

“I assume that Stiles is a nickname?” Derek asks, breaking his reverent chain of his cursing, but he doesn’t push for his real name, unlike most of previous therapist because according to _them_ , it’s healthier to be rooted back with his birth name, says that he can’t heal if he doesn’t accept its crucial importance, with exception of Chanel though.

She looked at Stiles weirdly when his voice grew challenging, daring her to say that he couldn’t use that name. Chanel simply shrugged and told him that as long his name is pronounceable; she holds no creative control on that issue and then chuckled when he blurted, “Wha _zat_.”

He clenches his fingers against his jean cladded thigh, gritting, “Yes.”

Derek hums approvingly before he uncaps the felt tip pen he was twisting around his fingers.

“Chanel called me up yesterday and said this was urgent. I just want to lay some ground lines in regards to today’s compromised situation. I’ll never shift or cancel any meetings we would have in the future, even on dire circumstances, and that you shouldn’t think otherwise on today’s impromptu meeting with me if I had to release a previous client to meet you today. I didn’t.”

Stiles blinks up at him, flummoxed, too overwhelmed in such a short span of time from being bombarded an overlay of information that shouldn’t matter, because it _doesn’t_ —he isn’t even on the same wave length with the dude—but there’s a strain pulling around his neck, like the air passages in his throat are closing up.

Instead, Stiles simply nods his head to acknowledge him.

“Now that’s cleared—” Derek starts and Stiles just focuses on his fingers, callous and thick, hairy at the knuckles because he knows he’s not ready for anything more, like staring into his eyes. He doesn’t think he can look disappointment straight in the eye.

“Do you know the reason why Chanel sent you to see me today?”

“She said—” Stiles stumbles and tries to tamp down the squeakiness breaking in his voice. “Chanel told me that it wasn’t in her field of work, whatever that means.” The silent _‘maybe my type of crazy is just too much for her to handle, just like how it did with_ him’ goes unsaid.

Stiles can feel the way Derek is looking at him, calculative and knowing, feels the ghost of his eyes tracking every miniscule movement he makes from head to toe. It’s paralyzing.

“Hale Insight has been a large corporation foundation in Beacon Hills for the past two centuries,” Derek tells and it sounds too memorized, ripped from some proficient Wikipedia page that Stiles shivers with the words. “It’s also one of the first few founding companies to exist in the world to help with the upkeep and the ever growing nation of The Sector.”

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise for him to continue when he pauses.

“The Sector has made some large progress in the past decade, an overwhelming growth and Hale Insight is simply here to assist people, like you, whom are confused with their sudden change of lifestyle, and needs guidance with initiation confirmation or has problems separating previous lifestyles with their current.”

Derek doesn’t wait for him to hash out any form of acknowledgment this time and continues speaking, “The Sector compromises of a biological dynamic that has been ingrained in our blood by years previous to our existence. For you, me, and the many that lives in the world, we are all involved with the human ethology that stems from a hierarchical system. Do you know what that means, Stiles?”

Stiles is confused, mind whirring with too many words that he has learnt from school but makes no sense when placed together, too many terms all being thrown at him all of a sudden and nothing is making _any_ fucking sense.

It all just sounds like a constitute blur of a language that he _should_ understand but doesn’t and he breaks—falls back into bad habits.

“Don’t tell me what I should or _shouldn’t_ know. Don’t you dare.”

Derek blows a breath out and Stiles watches the way he clenches around his pen, almost certain the plastic might give way under his fingers. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

The words are a paradox for Stiles and it vibrates his nerves, unsettling them. His breath starts to hitch, like he’s two seconds away from hiccupping sobs out, and the itch that underlies in his skin raids high now, to the point that he already has a hand wrapped around his forearm, fingers clenching tight.

He’s digging his nails into the cottony fabric, hopes that it might tear through the material and sink into flesh—claw to the rooted core.

Derek notices it, of course he does and tells him to calm down in an even, commanding tone, “Don’t do that, Stiles.”

“You don’t tell a person who’s bordering on at least a twenty fucking infinity on a scale of _ten_ to calm down. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Stiles yells and he’s clenching his eyes close, nausea pooling thick in his stomach, bile rising.

Stiles is heaving, probably making gagging noises and all he wants to do is leave, wants to be at home, in his room, where it’s _safe_. Where there are posters hanging limply with duct tape and blu tack on his walls, video games stacked unruly at the corner and a dad that cease to never exist whenever he’s at home. Not in this office, not here, because nothing feels familiar, even the air he’s trying to drag into his lungs smells off, too much of an expensive fragrant that gets his head spinning after a short period of time.

He doesn’t even notice that he’s at the door, hand grasping frantically to wrench the door open when Derek is suddenly beside him, loosely grabbing on his forearm with his big, hairy hands and Stiles just goes… limp against his chest.

A heady feeling spurs and everything that has been coiled too tight, too suffocating, in the past couple weeks gets released all at once, oozing out from his pores until his knees start to buckle from the lightness.

“I’m good at my job,” Derek explains but his voice sounds faraway, ears too pressurized to catch the sharp enunciation he’s sort of gotten used to with his speech. “Your mother was promised by my family, this corporation, that we would reach out to you if you ever came upon your initiation and I won’t break that promise, not to Claudia. She was a great Alpha to The Sector and the strength in her fight would never be forgotten.”

Stiles slowly snaps out of it when he hears _her_ name, or maybe Derek is slowly uncurling his fingers where it has dropped down to his wrist, and it’s like he’s being raised out from cold water and dunked back into Earth, panting and grasping. His lungs are figuring out how to become lungs again and his head is whirring, motion-blurring, body recollecting the treachery of tension.

“Let me help you to help yourself, Stiles.”

It’s the phantom of Derek’s breath, warm and hovering against his cheek and the frisson of heated pressure that is lingering otherworldly around his wrist, seeping under his skin and into his skin, making his blood sing and Stiles—he can’t fucking do this, can’t be here, not right now even though it’s the first time in weeks where he doesn’t feel like a wreck.

Instead, he chokes and runs away, uncaring that the mean blonde lady shouts after him.

-

Stiles goes through the week like he always does, closes himself off during school and tries not to talk back to any of the teachers, especially Harris. God, he’s the worst, like he had set his goal for the past few years to torture Stiles as much as he can, egging him to his limit. Fuck knows what got stuck up his ass for years to make him that angry, and that’s coming from _him._

Yeah.

It gets bad fast though, and by Tuesday morning, he’s too ill to move from bed, whimpering and cold sweat beading at his temples, forehead and at the back of his neck. His pillow is drenched with cooled perspiration and his lips are thoroughly chapped, split at the middle from where he’s been furiously tugging at them with his teeth.

Also, his arms are mostly trails of dried blood and scabs, especially near his wrist. They’re mostly scratched raw, the skin bruised an overly bright pink and a dirty green around the inflamed area. Stiles still feels it, still feels the weight of Derek’s fingers wrapped around them and his body wants them, wants it there again, to soothe and placate this unnerving edginess that he can’t rid of.

His dad says he’ll pick up a couple of painkillers at the end of his shift because Stiles offhandedly tells him he’s going to ditch school today, got himself bad food poisoning even though he hasn’t been able to stomach any food down for the past two days. Dad asks if he’s okay and Stiles turns his back to the door, burrowing himself deeper into his damp comforter.

He doesn’t need his dad’s concern _now_ , not when he’s been living fine without it for the past six years. Stiles is fine, completely alright, and he’s pretty certain that it’s just one of the spring flu bug that has been travelling around in school.

( _It’s not_.)

It’s Thursday and Stiles know he can’t shrug school off any longer without a proper medical leave but he isn’t physically able to assert any strength to get himself dressed and the idea of leaving his bed _hurts_ —no, not just the idea but his entire body _is_ aching. As though he just got ran over by a truck that has been overheated from a thirteen hour road trip.

Nonetheless, Stiles grits his teeth, commands effort into his dead weight limbs to shrug on the nearest jumper atop of his thoroughly soaked pyjamas shirt because he can’t miss his appointment with Chanel. He _can’t_ because he promised her (“ _Same time, next week_ ”, his mind echoes, betraying) and he tries to keep all his promises and not lie.

Well, not to her, anyway.

As he gathers his keys and limps weakly to the driveway, the idea of finding Derek keeps springing up with each step he takes further. It’s terrifyingly loud, screaming that _he_ knows what to do, _he_ made it okay the other day and he could easily do that again, take away whatever this is—make him _soar._

But he doesn’t need Derek, a goddam stranger that made everything good for those few seconds—he fucking _doesn’t_. Even though that notion keeps egging at him, teasing and tempting, pissing him off even more. It makes the putrid ache in his bones sag deeper and the unreachable itch pinching marrow deep.

Stiles isn’t sure how he managed to even keep his eyes opened long enough to reach the building of Chanel’s office. It feels like he didn’t even check his side or rear mirrors to see if there were any incoming vehicles behind him. God, he could’ve _died_ —could have missed that blind spot which was always a problem when he was taking his Drivers’ Ed and rammed head on to some unsuspecting driver.

That overdue fear claws at him, wrenches around his chest and constricting him until the pressure pops in his ears and he can hear the staccato hammering of his heart in his ears.

_Ba-thud, ba-thud, ba-thud._

He quickly swing his legs out of the jeep, tries not to dwell on the fact that his bad choices could’ve ended worst and the accumulated exhaustion has reached up to his kneecaps, foothold unsteady on the gravel roads, a hand clutching against the door panels.

Stiles struggles into the building with long, drawn strides and jams his fingers onto the elevator button until it finally relents, opening up, and he’s pushing through the late afternoon lunch crowd to get in.

He stumbles out on the fourth floor, focuses on the cooling sensation of cool tiles against his fingertips, uncaring that Aileen, the nicest service counter lady with deep dimples, is looking at him worriedly and is quickly drawing herself out from her seat.

The next few seconds happens achingly slow, straight out from a slow motion scene that would make Stiles cringe at the irony of it because he hates clichés more than anything.

Regardless, it happens.

A light veil starts to cover his eyes, dark spots giving way to his vision and his head feels like it’s swelling up, a consistent hammering that never ceases at the core, dragging him down. His skin feels too balmy, overheating and cooling at the same time, as he shivers and sweats in his layers.

The urge to piss in his pants follows quickly, terrifyingly, and it gets so overwhelming, pressing against his lower abdomen like a challenge that he does—just releases and his sleep pants start to soak heavy at the crotch. The thick, familiar smell of ammonia doesn’t even get to reach his nostrils before he passes out on the collecting pool of his urine.

-

Stiles doesn’t arouse slowly, unlike the many research he’s done up on fainting, instead he goes at it all at once, like he’s just been drowned and he’s gasping for air, body slumping front as he blinks his eyes open. His eyes burn from the florescent glare of the ceiling lights and he rubs at them, clearing the blurriness that’s clouding in his eyes and the dried caking of sleep flakes slowly.

He picks up a soft feminine voice at his side, quiet and shaky, repeating something as she squeezes his hand. Stiles nods his head dumbly, mind still unable to gather any basic strings of communication just yet and all he hears are just rattled on mutterings.

Then, there’s large hands cupping at his face, thick fingers spreading. The smooth feel of latex caresses against his cheek and Stiles subconsciously leans into the touch, feels the cooling of the material desensitizing his overheated skin and whines at the back of his throat when the hands— _such good hands_ —leaves him.

Someone pulls at the thin skin under his eyes, widening them and Stiles jerks back from it, hands shooting up to cover his eyes when something too bright, too fast starts to dance in his eyes, flashing like the siren lights of his dad’s police cruiser.

“— _Hurts_ ,” Stiles croaks, throat clutching painfully and dry. He clenches his eyes tight against the palm of his hands, feels it digging into his eye sockets as he tucks his chin against his chest.

Voices start to fill the room, an exchange of conversations that Stiles can’t seem to be able to grasp any meaning of and he shuts it out, wraps that part of reality and tosses it away instead, and focuses at the sound of medical utensils clinking noisily against metal trays.

Silence looms a few seconds later and Stiles starts to feel his breathing evening out. That panicky, jumpy feeling that was settling in his bones moments prior start to ebb away and in its stead, a shallow hollowness burrows in replacement.

He slowly peers up, pulling his hands away from his eyes and blinking them carefully until the blacks washes out. Stiles immediately notices a man right at the foot of the bed and he can’t place a finger on who that is, mind still whirring in a sleep after daze but yet he feels… _okay_ , like he knows the guy, knows that whoever this man is would never hurt him— _safe,_ his mind concludes.

The man is dressed in dark navy scrubs and has stubble drawing on his face that’s leaning on too dark, too untamed as though it’s at its beginning efforts of being a beard. He’s staring at him too, eyes locked directly at him and Stiles feels himself getting lost in them, bright eyes that are tinged with flecks of yellows and greens.

They remind him of the vestiges of a nebula, so far away and untainted with its beauty.

He’s distant though, face stoic and body stern, except for his expressive eyes. Oddly, Stiles feels disappointment wallowing in him because he yearns, wants for him to do _something_ , anything, and he doesn’t know where that feeling is coming from, probably somewhere dangerous, so he shoves it down, glancing away.

Not being directed under that man’s intense gaze, Stiles slowly realizes that he’s not at home or at the hospital (because he’s smart, he knows how cliché runs when he wakes up in a random bed, in an unknown place), taking in his surroundings. He’s been at the latter more times than he can count, has memorized the haunting layout of it.

The sheets at the hospital are always pink, knitted with loose threads and there’s always a wafting smell of cheap detergent and rubbing alcohol from it. A drip machine is always on the right, beeping in squeaky tones and there’s a clipper chart board always lying haphazardly on the overbed tables from where the doctors just leave them there after checking and this… this isn’t _it._

Whatever it is, though, is so far off from the usual wards he’s accustomed to.

There are too many dashes of whites and shades of greys that would put Christian to shame—blasphemy, he knows. It stinks of calming salts, like dewdrops and mildew on a wet morning. That’s when the slam of consciousness hurls at him in a halt of a heartbeat.

Flashes of monochromatic furniture and wallpaper that sits uneasily with him, a pen twisting with a fluid grace around thick, beautiful fingers and that man— _Derek,_ touching him, ordering him to sit down, telling him of too many things at one time that doesn’t make any sense and then this childish anger that consumes him so erratically.

“Where—” Stiles chokes and his throat is in flames, feels like it got furnished against sandpaper. In a quick second, there’s a plastic cup being shoved in his hand, small hands cupping around his to steady the shakiness and then he’s swallowing heady gulps of mineral water, fresh as it washes down his barren throat.

“Take it easy, Stiles. Don’t choke yourself.” A lady says— _Chanel,_ he finally notes, when things start to slot together in his head and those hands that are around his are hers, bony but an unseen-able strength in them.

He’s still greedily drinking his fill, chasing after the last couple of droplets from the cup that are dripping against his tongue when the cup leaves his mouth and someone is dabbing at the corners of his mouth, wiping away the residue of saliva and moisture.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, concern etched on her face and Stiles is looking at her, eyes flickering around as he gains his lucidity.

“Uh,” Stiles doesn’t know why his mouth is moving against his will but the words tumble out, “Like I’ve been to hell and back.”

“You fainted,” Derek tells and then Stiles makes a bad move by glancing at him and then he sees those eyes, which are still on him, calculatingly and pressing and so wise, too fucking wise that could easily see through the common tricks he has cleverly used to deceive many others.

Chanel watches their interaction intriguingly, hears the vibration of her vocal chords stilling in the air as she hums. “Do you know where you are, Stiles?”

He shakes his head, tearing his gaze away.

Derek cuts in swiftly, “Chanel called me immediately when you passed out. I told her to bring you here immediately and she checked you in to one of the many medical facilities at Hale Insight. She’s also the one that did the paperwork because you’re not of age yet and we couldn’t get a hold of your father—Sheriff Stilinski.”

Stiles laughs, a cold, sick sound that rumbles from his chest.

“Go figure,” He mutters because he could have been left in a ditch, paralyzed and dead, and his father probably would only notice when passer-by complaints rile up at the station that there’s a corpse messing up traffic flow. “Could I leave now? I’m feeling better and it’s just a seasonal flu that has me all… y’know, faint-y.”

“Stiles,” Derek huffs in annoyance and he watches faintly how he crosses his arms against his chest. “You can’t continue doing this. I won’t allow it.”

Stiles almost challenges him, lips already tight with the words. _“Yes, I can. And I will. Watch me.”_ But then Derek’s talking again and he bites them down.

“During initiations, you’ll be allocated a specific sector, Stiles. There are… _requirements_ that your body needs. If no arrangements are made for consultations, passing out would be the least of your worries.”

Stiles quickly goes into flight or flee mode, the momentous swing of feeling threatened and too caged up, with too many curious eyes peering at him as though he’s a mathematical equation waiting to be solved and fuck—he’s a goddamn _person_. He doesn’t _need_ solving.

All he did was faint, albeit in a dramatic order—he remembers urinating himself—well, he used to think his calling was Broadway, anyway.

“Oh?” Stiles says indignantly, chest puffing as though he’s readying for battle. “Where’d you learnt that, hm? In School of Wikipedia for the crazies and loonies? _Quit it_. Stop talking about ‘initiations’ and what’s not to me as though I’m a child. I don’t need your help so don’t you fucking threaten me, Dr. Derek Hale, PhD—in _what_ , really? Scaring the shit out of teenagers?”

Chanel snorts beside him and Stiles feels empowered for a moment even though he’s on the bed, looking up at him, almost vulnerable in the way he has twisted himself up on the bed.

Yet, Derek is staring at him, eyes piercing and emboldened with a heat that easily translates as anger and Stiles knows he’s got him pissed off and that’s familiar territory, that he can handle and it hardens his resolve on not just issuing his white flag yet.

“Now,” Stiles starts. “I’d like to go home and if that doesn’t please you, well, I’d say fuck off but then _that_ would sound almost like a compliment.”

Derek looks completely outraged, and his veins are popping heinously at his neck, almost like it’s encouraging his anger. It seems like he’s ready to gouge out his eyeballs with that pair of scalpel that’s glinting like a beaconing temptation on the metal tray beside him.

He doesn’t though, which Stiles is a little grateful.

Just a little.

Instead, Derek takes in a large breath, chest expanding under the thin material of scrubs he’s wearing before he blows it out shakily, probably dispersing his irritation through the atmosphere.

 “—Fine.”

Stiles looks at him warily, knows that it’s not his final say and can almost hear the _‘but’_ coming up any second now. Of course it goes to say that Derek surprises him as he isn’t a ‘but’ guy—no pun intended. Fuck you; he’s _sixteen_ , his mind treks among opportunities for sexual puns.

“Then I’ll simply sit in during your appointments with Chanel,” Says Derek. “Which, I’m certain that she’ll allow under circumstances because I’ve updated her on your situation. That’ll probably prolong your session from an hour to two or three. Depending on circumstances, of course.”

The asshole smirks, actually gives him this tilt of a grin that is a hundred percent made up with the middle finger and a bit more, and that just _frustrates_ him even more because he’s just playing into his cards.

Stiles makes an annoyed squawk, should be humiliated how petulant he sounds, but he can’t _help_ it—this guy is pushing and he hates it.

_Passionately._

And Stiles—he doesn’t want _that_.

The idea of Derek sitting in Chanel’s office, so obtrusive and tainting it with his outcry of stupid initiations and Sector what’s not which really could go shit itself on a stick, so he glares up at him, mumbling out an agreement to continue their appointments on Fridays.

Derek continues smirking at him.

-

Stiles thank Chanel for her kind offer of giving him a lift back to her office building to collect his jeep and then follows it up with an apology that he made a mess at her workplace. She laughs it off dismissively, says that nothing a little floor cleaner can’t remove before she drives away.

He reaches home at around nine and the night is heavy with hidden stars. Once he’s parked in the garage, he stares at the empty lot beside him that his dad’s cruiser usually idles at which, you know, just proves about his dead in a ditch theory.

He kicks dirt at it, hopes it might leave an imprint of scuff marks on the concrete.

-

The school bell blares suddenly, startling Stiles who is writing mid-sentence on the batik notebook his mom bought shortly before she got admitted in the hospital. It’s the first time in weeks where his mind is completely silent except for the boring flood of information that his history teacher is lamenting on but whatever, he’s using it to his advantage, soaking in whatever precious missed out educating he’s missed out.

Yeah, he may be a little curious about the disappearance of that pesky itch in his bones but he’s not exactly enthused on it returning.

It’s barely even one in the noon and Stiles still has two hours to kill off, so he takes the longer route to Hale Insight. He zips through the woods in his jeep with the windows rolled down, taking in the dewy, wet smell of the forestry, lets nature fill his lungs and that simple ecstasy of a cheap thrill bubbles in him.

Sometimes he wonders if he never stops driving; just simply continue until the cities burn to acres of farming lands and gravel turns to sand, if he could reach the other side of the world.

Of course he would need to make the occasional pit stops at gas stations for stale wrapped bread and to pump up petrol, but it’s with that fantasy—to be somewhere new, a place where he could probably go by a different name, maybe his real name, or grow out a moustache and live off from kind strangers’ money—that surpasses it all.

( _What do you mean there are oceans that would stop him? He refuses the oceans_.)

Before he knows it, it’s already three and he’s making his third round around the now familiar, jagged roads of the forest before he finally exits. The rancid smell of civilization and the disgusting bite of inhaling another driver’s tailpipe smoke becomes a little too much that he quickly rolls up the windows, sighing.

Stiles approaches the Hale Insight building with reluctance wearing like lead on the bottom of his soles and when he passes that mean, blonde lady— _Erica_ —she gives him this look, a new one that he hasn’t seen on her face before (not that he’s known her for long since this is the second time he’s meeting her) but he’s not exactly comfortable when he’s not being situated with her grubbiness.

Anyway, it looks a lot like subtle curiosity.

He hates it on her.

-

Stiles knocks on the door, three rapid successions then Derek’s voice chimes through the door telling him to enter and it startles him, something that digs at him the way déjà vu does. But it can’t really be that when it’s already happened, does it?

Regardless, he shakes it off, enters the office and leaving the ounce of profound contemplation at the threshold of the door to take his usual seat. Derek’s already in his seat, behind the desk, in his normal attire of a dress shirt with a tie that matches, and Stiles thinks he looks better in scrubs, more… laid back.

Derek reaches over his desk, lightly wrapping those fingers he’s thought of countless of times around his wrist before he makes any greets and Stiles quickly flinches away, snatching his arm away.

“Christ,” Stiles snaps, heart stuttering as he cradles his arm against his chest as though he just got burnt. “That’s not how you do a handshake, Derek.”

Derek laughs softly, the creases at his eyes wrinkling.

“It’s good to see that you’ve kept on your word. That’s progress.” Derek smiles a though he just won some amateur competition, instead of you know, apologizing as a common courteous because that’s just how he rolls. Douchebag. “How are you feeling, Stiles?”

“Dandy,” Stiles returns, in a biting tone.

“Alright,” Derek finalizes. “Let’s get started then?”

Stiles scoffs out a bitter laugh, “It’s not like I’ve got much a choice. Do I?”

It’s a rhetorical question, meant to annoy, and Derek knows better than to give him leeway. Instead, he sends an odd look his way, something profound and unreadable, which Stiles almost misses if he wasn’t already looking at him, eyes unblinking, before he quickly schools it away into a deadpan.

It digs a little at Stiles because he doesn’t understand the underlying motives Derek has that make him this… _persistent_. Yeah, there are past therapists ( _and current ones_ , he scowls) that pushes for answers, drives him to the edge with questions and incessant harbouring because they want him to quote, unquote: “ _You can’t get better without speaking up, Stiles. The mind has to be flushed, and words are the best cleanser_.", and he knows the game they play, like the back of his hand, but not Derek’s.

It makes him confounded, frustrated into disbelief because he’s allowing some… some _asshole_ to get under his skin.

Derek rifles through the papers on his desk before launching into a lengthy speech. He starts explaining about how Hale Insight has grown into the corporation it is today through many endeavoured hardships, and how it has managed to base on centuries worth of research and knowledge to finally specialized on The Sector’s initiation.

That this small town family based company now holds one of the best track records in the world for upholding an excellent, trustworthy foundation between client and advisory.

Then, Derek produces a stack of papers that he slips out from a transparent folder, a contract; to go through with him, and pauses every few pages to request for his signature at allocated dotted areas when necessary.

Stiles points out that he’s not of age yet, even though he knows it’s futile because he remembers the casual mention that Derek made about his skinny jailbait ass the day before.

Derek simply shrugs his shoulders, saying, “I won’t tell if you won’t.” with his little smug smirk that makes Stiles want to paw at his own face. Regardless, he pens down his name in his messy handwriting because yeah, _see:_ underage. _See:_ not a point in life where he’s even figured out his own personally styled signature.

Oddly, Stiles feels like an adult for the first time, and not just some dumb kid who can’t seem to control his short temperament and dead mother issues and is stuck waiting outside the counselling office, twiddling his thumbs, while his dad signs his responsibility away with each signature.

There’s a small burst of relief that follows too. The knowledge that he could keep whatever _this_ is away from his father just a little, appeases him. To have this area of his life kept as a secret for just this once, and not in folders, stacked and neatly dated with notes until the end of the year comes around and all the therapist he’s seeing gives an overview summary of the progress he’s made during the year to his dad.

Yeah, he hates that time of the year because he can practically taste the incoming disappointment in the air as he waits outside.

Derek then delves shortly about his mother, just a brief moment before he moves on, probably sensing Stiles’ distress souring on his face. His fingers are twisting painfully together, knuckles popping and giving way under the brutal pressure.

Yet, the way he talked about her made it seem like she was a good friend of his. Such clever words strung together for her as though she was this person whom he once idolized and has placed on a pedestal.

Stiles _hates_ hearing that—has heard numerous people come forth during his mother’s wake and the years that follow, telling him how she was such an inspirational person, such a fighter even at those last moments. These strangers didn’t even _know_ her during those last few days, where she was weak and frail on the hospital bed during short afternoons and screaming her throat raw in the night from the multitude of medication she’s receiving.

He seethes quietly, feels the bitter spill of bile washing at the back of his throat until Derek finally picks up on a new topic. He talks about his initiation, well—Derek’s the one doing most of the talking, Stiles just sits there and try taking in as much as he can before his head starts to give the beginning throttle of a headache.

Derek informs him that his initiation came two years earlier than expected. He doesn’t reveal the reason behind it, instead tells him that it usually matures in people once they reach around eighteen to twenty years old because that’s when the hormones from their adolescent puberty starts to go dormant and the other side of biology kick starts their… transformation— _transitioning_ —whichever.

Stiles laughs moronically, uncaring that he’s getting spit flying in droplets against the desk while Derek shoots him a weird, confused look, obviously startled with his random outburst.

Fuck, he should have paid more attention to the Pokémon series, huh? Since he’s slowly evolving into something else—shit, this is it, right? The designation of life’s dumb fuckery of shitty things to happen and damn right, Stiles has hit the jackpot. Then, he realizes that there are other people out there in ‘The Sector’ who are probably going through the same things as him and quietens down.

“You okay?” Derek asks, brows furrowed in a way that makes Stiles think of caterpillars.

“I’m good,” Stiles snorts, waving it off dismissively but Derek tilts his head, encouraging him to elaborate. “Just—thinking of Pokémon. The usual.”

“Right,” Derek answers, voice vaguely amused and Stiles shouldn’t feel proud that he’s the cause of that, for that little peek of a smile that’s tweaking at the corners of his lips. He shouldn’t but yet, he _is_. “So, you’ve heard the backstory of Hale Insight and The Sector, well, in what I could put into layman terms. Don’t roll your eyes at me. Anyway, after initiation, one would fall in any of the three categories—”

“Wait. _Categories?_ ” Stiles interrupts, dubious.

“Yes,” Derek answers in a way that almost sounds like _shut up and let me finish my sentence._ “Well, that’s not really the correct term to use though. Most often people would refer it as the Hierarchical System but, uh… it’s a mouthful.”

“Yeah man,” Stiles cracks up with a bewildered scoff. “I’m not even going to try pronouncing that fancy schmancy word. I’ll leave that to you.”

Derek tries to stifle a snort but Stiles hears it anyway.

“Anyway, there are three _sectors_ that most initiations would be sorted into, and no, not like Harry Potter. These rankings are stemmed from an individual’s biological roots. Be it hereditary, or on ones’ intellectual or an emotional basis. Sector Alpha, Sector Beta and lastly, Sector Omega.”

Stiles slowly nods his head, humming in pretence that he actually understands whatever Derek’s saying. They may not be running on the same wavelength but he _is_ curious though, the tiny niggling voice at the back of his head wanting to know exactly what’s wrong with him—if he’s fixable. (Not that he needs fixing)

So, he asks, in a soft, vulnerable voice, insecurity inking like a second layer of skin. “So, doc, what’s your verdict on me?”

Derek looks at him, eyes flickering with an intensity that makes Stiles scoot to the edge of the seat, toes curling. “Sector Omega,” He finally says, and then quietly adds. “The second omega I’ve come across initiation, actually.”

The session ends pointedly with Derek showing him the exit of his office with a restrained smile but not before he presses a gentle, lingering squeeze on his shoulder. The action is too feather light to even retain the faint memory of fingers curling on him but as Stiles leaves, he still feels the warmth of radiated from Derek stewing under his skin, almost tantalizing and burning.

-

The following week burns achingly slow, reminds Stiles of stifled days and hot nights during the summer. He spends the weekend in a constitution of solitude and the company of his television voicing a list of B-grade movies he has queued up on his hard drive—which he illegally torrented off some highly trusted website.

Yeah, sheriff’s son and what’s not. He’s a total rebel.

When the weekdays finally roll in, homework starts to pile up at school while teachers getting more aggravated and strict in the classroom as examinations are slowly approaching. Stiles is pretty certain that he has received at least five pep talks about his future in the first two days of the week. Three of them were from the gym coach, Finstock, who isn’t even a teacher in-charge of his grade.

To make matters worse, the medication for his anxiety has to be refilled on a Wednesday, so he stops by the pharmacy after school before popping in for his session with Jules.

Stiles hates her most, just the thought of her makes him want to shrink into himself, praying to a faith he has long lost for their appointment to be as painless it could be. Not physically, of course. Actually, he’d rather take a beating from her which would actually count as a blessing since her sessions are emotionally draining because he lets the frustration and anger _stew_ —curls into something unfathomable and _ugly_ for the whole hour before he takes it out on his steering wheel.

Each time he leaves her sessions, he always spends the rest of the evening hearing her nasally voice in his head, almost egging him even further.

Wednesdays are the worst.

When Thursday finally rolls around and classes are dismissed, Stiles finally lets out a huge sigh of relief. He shoves all his stationery into his backpack and quickly drives down to Chanel’s office building. One of the security guards he’s gotten on a first name basis after a year of comfortable small, makes him roll down his window, asking if he’s feeling better after last week. He must have heard from the upper associates gossiping about the town sheriff’s kid pissing himself stupid.

“Yeah man,” Stiles returns, beaming and gives him a fist bump. “Fit like a bull. Or horse. Whichever animal catches your liking today for that idiomatic expression, Logan.”

He parks his jeep and rushes into the building. A flutter of nerves settles low in his belly when he sees Aileen at the desk, shooting him a concerned look when he flails out the elevators. Stiles plays it off with a cool shrug that totally means _yeah, I’ve got my body under control this week. Fret not!_

Aileen just gives him a small smile, acknowledging, and he sits himself down at the waiting area while trying his best not to inhale too deeply as he awaits his turn. Thinks it might bruise his ego even more if he catches just a slight tang of urine in the air.

-

Instead of his usual session with Chanel where he lies on the chaise lounge, hands tucked under his head while they talk about irrelevant things like international politics or how pop music has completely deteriorated in quality in recent years—he asks about _Derek_ , because apparently he lacks brain to mouth filter today or maybe just lacking in the brain compartment.

“So,” Stiles begins. “Uh, how did you come to know Derek?”

Chanel gives him an apprehensive, dubious look which Stiles isn’t even going to touch it with a ten foot pole to deciphering its meaning.

“I didn’t, actually.” Chanel answers after a long beat. “Well, we weren’t exactly acquaintance to friends’ type situation—more like we knew each other because we’re in the same work circle.” She straightens her posture. “I actually knew his older sister—Laura. We went to college together, way back then. Shared the same classes as her as we both took a minor in English at a university in downtown Michigan.”

“Ah. That’s, um, cool?”

“Why the sudden curiosity?”

Stiles coughs into his hand, shrugging. “May as well, right?”

Chanel makes an acknowledging hum and Stiles sometimes forget how wise she is.

-

The next morning, Stiles feels that familiar buzzing under his skin again as soon as he wakes. It’s lighter though, almost skittering at the edges of nearly fathomable if he really zones out from his other senses and puts all his focus on it but yet also slowly wrecking him as he takes a shower because he can’t seem to rid it off even though he’s sluicing soap and water as rough as he can.

Anger barrels into him full-fledged because he thought it was fucking _done_? Stiles has been making regular appointments with Derek, the ability to finally catching up with some long overdue school assignments and he’s finally taken the path of having a slightly open mind in regards to ‘The Sector’ but yet— _yet_ , it’s there, returning.

The feeling gets worse during the day as soon he reaches school. Almost like it’s coming off stronger this time and Stiles starts to scratch at his arms through the thick fleece hoodie he’s wearing, lets the heated trails roar in agony at his inner arm as an anchor through each period.

He starts glancing at the clock every few minutes, waiting impatiently for the final bell to ring so that he could get to Derek soon—wants for him to take this feeling away like he always does and not be suffocated in whatever this is. Like he’s being dangled at the edge of a cliff and can’t quite seem to gets his breathing in order, pressure popping in his ears and a simultaneous urge to vomit and have a melt down at the same time.

There’s an hour to burn before his appointment starts when he reaches Hale Insight. It’s a little crowded today in the waiting area, compared to the previous two times Stiles was here. Probably because tomorrow’s Labour Day and everyone’s trying to get their messed up problems settled before they enjoy the long weekend with their families.

(Cues internal bitter laughter.)

He manages to snatch an empty seat on a double seater beside a boy around his age with muscles that looks like it belongs on a twenty something year old adult. He has tanned skin, a tattoo peeking out from the short sleeved button up he’s wearing and wavy hair styled into a tandem of a rock star and a toddler who discovered hair gel.

Oh wait—he’s seen him around in school. Scott McCall, Stiles thinks that’s his name, yeah. He’s one of the kids that are always hanging around with the popular clique, well, they’re more like his posse but whatever. Dude’s a hardcore jock, plays for the school team in Lacrosse, plays offense for Basketball when it’s Lacrosse off season, and on Basketball’s off season, he runs cross country.

There was a time when he wanted to be just like Scott, had even tried working up the courage to ask if he ever wanted to come around his place to hang out and play old PlayStation games (the classics are always better) on his old console. That’s when he finally came to know that it was Scott’s dad who was his father’s partner down at the station.

He doesn’t hate Scott because frankly, you can’t hate a person with a set of dimples, but also because that’s childish. However, there would always be an underlying impish anger that radiates to him in default, just because.

Each time he sees Scott in school, hears his raucous laughter ringing in the hallways, the words scream in his head, belting with heat and longing.

_You took half of my universe away. Why do you get to have two halves of the world and I don’t? Why, why, why?_

“Hey,” Scott says, startling him out of his thoughts. “You’re John’s kid, aren’t you?”

Stiles makes an affirmative noise and ducks his head down, doesn’t want to see his face, all lit up and carefree, because he thinks that there’s a great chance he might try to land a right hook on his face which would probably break his fingers as a result.

Instead, he digs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, pressing nails into his clammy palm.

“What you in for?”

Stiles stares at the ground, watches the swirl of lights dance against the marble tiles and how his pair of converse shoes have really taken a beating this past year. There’s mud from where he spent his several weekends in the forest, trekking to the highest point to overlook the entire town and notes how the threads are fraying at where it should be connecting sole to shoe.

“Uh? Dude?”

“Can we just— _not?_ ” Stiles snaps finally because, yeah—if you haven’t realized that there’s a pattern going on. He hates people who pushes, hates it more than how this unorthodox feeling is tearing him apart internally, taking his sanity away. “The small talk and whatever. I get that you’re…” He waves his hand around at Scott’s general direction. “—a preppy guy, or whatever. Good for you, y’know? All the gold stars, bro. But, let’s not.”

Stiles notices from his peripheral how several on-lookers in the waiting room taking interest upon their exchange, even Erica behind the counter has a brow raised in a way that scarily reminds him of Derek.

“ _Jeez_ ,” Scott huffs, obviously displeased. “Thought you were out of that angry phase, man.”

Stiles clenches his hands together, feels the way his breath quickens with this quick, blinding rage that is unfurling in his chest, vulgar words almost ripping at the tip of his tongue. His discontentment with life in general isn’t a _phase_ —it’s not, fuck.

It’s an extension of having bad things happen to him which y’know, shit happens, but he’s better now. He’s motherfucking Mary Poppins with bonus red heels that he stole off Dorothy to click.

So, Stiles takes the high road and grits out, “Mind your own business, kid.”

Scott rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue that makes Stiles’ skin crawl in unrighteous irritation. He pointedly breathes through his mouth as noisily as he can just to annoy the shit out of him while his mind bellows: _It isn’t a phase,_ and _your dad is the reason that I’m garbage in my father’s eyes_ , and _god can really take a dip in my shit pool at this moment._

-

Stiles quietly seethes until Scott finally takes the hint to fuck off and that’s around the time Erica finally calls out his name at half past three. He stomps his feet all the way and doesn’t even knock before he barges into the office, slamming the door behind him.

Derek snaps his head up at him, startled, glasses drooping at the bridge of his nose. He slowly takes them off and settles them on the desk while Stiles plops on his usual seat.

“You okay?” He asks, scrunching his nose.

Stiles blows a breath out, tries to repel the anger he’s been letting it simmer inside for the past hour. “Just dandy, Derek.” He says sarcastically and when Derek gives him this pointed look, he sighs. “Just—some kid from my school that spotted me outside in the waiting area and then started harassing me.”

Derek is tight-lipped when he replies, “You’re a kid too, you know.”

And _that?_ That just takes the fucking cake. Because Stiles is exhausted from enduring this bullshit agony that’s clearly taking a toll on his mental and physical health and fuck—he can’t do it anymore. He can’t. That cliff he’s being hung right at the edge, he wants to dive down, wants for that imaginary string that’s taut around his neck to snap and let him soar through those seconds of impending doom until he crushes on gravel and floats away.

“Fuck you,” He finally says and he sounds too calm, voice not even quivering even though the corners of his eyes sours and there’s a twinge of pain that follows with that salty rage. “I’m done.”

Then Stiles is pushing himself off the chair, the ugly scraping sound of wooden flooring scratching at the pull and he’s taking long strides towards the door when there’s a hand suddenly grabbing him roughly at the nape, pulling him back and choking him momentarily.

“No, no you’re not.” Derek says warningly, tightening his grip. “And you’re gonna sit down and we’re going to talk. Like normal human beings. I am not your punching bag for your adolescent emotions so you either start acting like the adult you claim to be, _or_ settle down and let me teach you like the kid you _are_ being.”

Stiles struggles and tries to spit at his face, watches the cloud of anger flood into Derek’s eyes, the greens he’s used to seeing ebbs into heated yellows and oranges, spurring him on even more.

“Order me again and I’ll never come back. I promise you.”

“Oh, tough guy with the threats, huh?” Derek snaps sardonically. Nails dig deep into Stiles’ nape, heat stinging and throbbing in tandem with his hammering heartbeat, ripping out a strained grunt from him. “Fine. Don’t you come crying to me when you realize you can’t do it alone.”

Stiles elbows him at the rib and twists out from his grip, spitting, “Fine.”

A soft hurt noise escapes behind him but he doesn’t stay to watch Derek pressing a palm against his afflicted side, probably trying to glare a hold at the back of his head. Well, too bad for him because he’s going to put his hood up. Take that, asshole.

-

It takes less than the weekend to pass before that tingling of discomfort spreads like wildfire on his skin. Previously healed scabs that littered on his arms and thighs start getting overlaid with new scratch marks—untidy and red hot. The emotions that follow are at the severity of an oppositional spectrum that it starts giving him whiplash.

It juggles between infuriating anger that makes him seethe, grits his teeth that causes his jaw to hurt and then the downfall of it, where he starts wallowing in pathetic misery.

Stiles hates it, wants out of this so badly that he plays around with the idea of crawling back to Derek on hands and knees but— fuck _that._

He’s tougher than that (than nails, bitch), isn’t going to simply concede his loss, waving the white flag and watch Derek give him that face—the face that says _I’m better than you_ , and _I told you so_ , and _well, you kind of asked for it, kid._ Yeah, he’s not going to do that, justifies that he’s not some goddamn weakling who can’t brave through a little bit of unplesantry.

And that’s what this just _is_ , a teensy little boo-boo.

(Yeah, he’s been told that he has a warped way of expressing him. The distorted, unrealistic and you’re a goddamn liar, Stilinski—way.  Whatever.)

Stiles is a fighter and he’s not going fold back on his words. He will go down as a fighter. Hopefully, this time, without urinating himself stupid.

So, he goes back to school on Monday even though the old t-shirt he pulled out from in between his mattress to wear is already soaked with cold sweat by the time he pulls up at the school parking lot, mop of hair drenched and matting on his forehead.

He’s fine—if he had survived his mom's death, he could do this. _Easily._

Piece of fucking cake.

It’s only when Stiles is in last period of class, some art lesson that a fancy gay teacher is in-charge of (No, he’s not being offensive, actually bats for both teams whenever he’s in the mood to jerk off to mediocre porn but the teacher literally described himself as… that on the first day of class. Well, in a more fanciful, not holding back anything way. _“Alright… peasants, I’m Justin, and yes. I know what you’re thinking ‘Oh, he has such a girly voice’ and then you’re going to tell all your cool friends how gay your art teacher is, which, technically right. So, not offensive to me at all. I like penis—oh, they’re just the greatest, aren’t they? So, yes, deal with it. Now, let’s begin. What is art?”)_ Is telling them to select three different colours to paint, that’s when he falls apart.

The urge doubles over, pain radiating at his lower abdomen until his body gives way, bottoming out and he falls on his side against the cooled tiles, dry heaving on an empty stomach.

Stiles hears the slur of his classmates screaming bloody murder but everything sounds too distant to understand at the moments, ears popping with each frantic inhale. He faintly hears his name getting yelled several times into his ears and people shaking him at the shoulders until he just blows.

Literally.

There’s the sick sound of gagging in his head and then he’s vomiting on himself and on the floor, a yellowish stringy pool of saliva dribbling down his chin to join the puddle of greenish bile.

Justin yells wildly at a couple of kids in class to help him to the nurse—stat. Stiles can’t really keep up after that, eyes blurry with salty tears but he feels the strength of hands wrapping around his waist to pull him off the ground then shoulders bearing his weight under his armpits.

At least he can tick off ‘doing the walk of shame’ from his things to never do list.

His knees start to buckle but there’s soft encouragement being whispered to his ears as he half walks, half being a limp puppet until he’s being lifted up onto a stiff mattress to lie on. He hears the whispers from them wondering if he’s going to be okay—if he’s _dying_ —which makes him want to laugh hysterically but everything just _hurts_ at the moment.

The nurse shoo them away after a few minutes and then pads over to his side,  tells him that she’s going to call his father which Stiles just nod his head obediently. The urge to be at home, on his bed with sheets that smell like stale sweat and pizza crumbs beats feeling like this outside and thinks that he can’t deal with another wave of public humiliation.

There’s a thermometer shoved into his ear, hears the beep ring out in his head and then there’s a coarse blanket draping around his shoulders.

Stiles doesn’t even realize his teeth were chattering until she elevates his head up, pushing something against his lips for him to drink and it gushes down like salted water, bitter and horrible against his tongue, that he shoves it away, spilling some of the contents on his shirt.

“—No,” He tries to make out, eyes clenching tight to reign in the nausea.

When his dad barges into the office fifteen or twenty minutes later (he doesn’t really know, too disorientated to keep track of anything) shouting his name that almost makes his ears bleed, he looks almost worried.

Keyword being _almost._

-

“You sure you’re okay?” John asks.

He’s awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed tight at his chest and there’s trepidation in his voice like he really doesn’t want an answer for his question. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to deal with a kid who’s already sick in the head but then, no, kid has to top it off with being physically sick too! Yeah.

“You’ve never gotten sick twice in a month before.”

 _Just leave_ , Stiles wants to say, feels it protesting against his chapped lips. He tamps it down, like always, tugging the comforter closer to his chest.

“I’m fine,” He finally croaks out.

There’s no reply that comes after, just soft footsteps padding out his room and his dad closing his bedroom door behind him. Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about that—maybe _relief?_ He never knows anymore.

The ache that runs in his bones still tremors like a precaution for more, as though it’s warning him to prepare himself because the worst has yet to come (“ _passing out would be the least of your worries.”_ ). All Stiles wants to do is burrow deep into his bed, maybe mould himself into the sheets, and cry, while wanting someone to scoop him up into their arms and take him away from this.

Stiles wonders if his mother ever felt this way before she died. Those last few hours where she was quiet on the bed, no longer begging for the sweet release of death because she knew it was coming—at the edge, preparing.

Maybe those classmates of his were right, maybe he was dying.

He catches the faint motor of his dad’s cruiser leaving the garage, gates clanging shut, and then there’s an immediate fill of complete silence ringing in his ears. That’s when his breath starts to hitch, a blunt pain digging at the back of his eyes until wetness couples at his bottom lash line, stinging.

It shouldn’t matter that his dad left because that—that _bastard_ has been doing the same thing for the past six years. It shouldn’t, because Stiles is used to it, but yet he’s in bed, soaking his pillows with foreign tears. Although he can tell between the lines of could be with it’ll never happen, never gets better—doesn’t mean that he sometimes wants to accept it.

His mom wouldn’t come back no matter how much he mourns, doesn’t hold any worth if he still makes a rare habit of sitting out at the front door, fingers clutching on the grail as he waits for her to return home. Not in ashes from her cremation, but whole, with life in her body—before the treatments, the medications, and the cancer.

When Stiles is finally choking on snot and sorrow, he realizes that he’s simply mourning for the loss of his other parent now, since he’s never had the chance to do that before.

-

Stiles skips school for the next two days and feels that outrage for feeling this, immobile and unable to do anything. The most he did in the past couple of days was crawl into the toilet to piss his bladder’s worth before pathetically pulling himself onto his bed again, whimpering at how every joint is screaming in agony.

That’s when he realized that it’s his second Harris’ class that he ditched consecutively. Harris has been biting at his ass for the past year now, and also chemistry is the toughest to score because Stiles is not going to succumb to a low where he becomes one of those kids that suck up to him for extra credit.

No fucking way, he’d rather fail.

The worst part is that he doesn’t even friends to call to help him take notes—sure, he may have the occasional lab partner (there’s Cindy and Heather) but he never actually managed to maintain some form or degree of friendship with them. It’s mostly an acquiesced alliance to get shit done.

It’s Thursday and his session with Chanel is starting in an hour or two, the clock is too far for him to focus. He’s been sweating his bed mouldy, an on-and-off fever that has been pitching and derailing him to a point where it either feels like he got plunged into a desert without water for days, leaving him parched and burning, or deserted in negative zero, freeze your ass cheeks, island.

It’s pathetic—he feels pathetic, helpless and weak in a way that has surpassed levels beyond the previous time he felt like this but its _fine_. He doesn’t need anyone, especially not _him._ Anyone but Derek Hale.

Fuck, he’s a _survivor_ , okay?

-

“—Chanel.”

“Stiles?” She answers, voice thinned with worry over the phone. “You don’t sound too good.”

“I’m fine—it’s all good.”

“What’s wrong? Are you sick? Do you need Derek?”

“No,” Stiles says pointedly and meaning it, hears the strength that has been missing in him the last few days. “Definitely not. No, uh, I just needed to cancel our appointment today. I’m not really at top form at the moment.”

A pause.

“Are you sure?” She says hesitantly. “Do you want me to call him for you?”

The fight leaves him then, exhaustion crawling like a vice around his throat.

“I—don’t know.” Stiles mutters and it sounds like a weakened plead.

He ends the call abruptly then because he knows if he stays on the line for even a second longer, he’s going to say yes because he _wants_. Wants those hands to be on him, around his wrist or at the back of his neck, leeching the hurt, and ache, and bones deep pain out of him until he’s nothing but a floating body around the mass again.

-

Stiles is startled up from his god awful nap, swollen eyes already wet with agony as his entire body burns, and burns. An intensified inflammation roaring in every joint as he tries to shift his position until he ultimately decides to lay still. Every part of his body is pin-pricked with needles, stabbing him mercilessly until they’re seeping and joining the flow of his veins, coursing his system like venom.

He doesn’t know where the ache begins and ends before he becomes this whole vicious cell of torment.

There’s dried tears at the corners of his eyes, cracking and pulling as he blinks awake. He doesn’t even know if he’s truly awake, pain scorching to a limit that he’s certain that pinching himself wouldn’t carry the same effect, or if he’s in a lucid state of dreaming because— _because_ Derek is in his room, sitting by his desk and looking at him with those annoying bright eyes.

“What—what the _fuck?_ ” He tries to yell, but it comes out slurred, hoarse, like he had shot his voice at a concert the day before and has a cold running.

Derek doesn’t even bat his eyes, “Chanel called me.” He says. “I rang the doorbell for twenty minutes but nobody answered. Anyway, your front door is unlocked. Heads up, by the way.”

Stiles sinks deeper into his bed, wonders if hell would take him in right now. He thinks Derek’s batshit insane for trespassing the Sheriff’s house but the anger that he allowed to stew in him the last couple of days disintegrates to join the overwhelming priorities of his mind, like shock.

Because Derek fucking Hale is in his room and he may or may not have fell asleep yearning for that to happen.

Maybe not in _this_ situated circumstance but rather, to be whisked away on a cloud to be far away from his father and appointments with bad therapists that should go back and re-take their degree courses.

The room’s quiet, stifling and Derek’s still looking at him. He’s always staring whenever they’re together in the same room and it’s intense, kind of like trying to look at the sun directly but… _more_. Derek looks at him as though he’s some broken toy waiting to be fixed, or some days, a jigsaw puzzle to be solved—or fuck.

As though he’s something _important._

He hates it.

Derek approaches the bed with quiet, nimble footsteps and he never asks for permission, never, only always takes. The mattress dips with his weight as he sits beside him and the smell of his cologne wafts into Stiles’ nose, comforting and heady. Like a fresh batch of warm clothes from the dryer.

He looks out of place in a teenager’s room with barely there sunlight filtering through the blinds, an obtrusive bulk of muscle and poorly shaven stubble with said teen who has never shaved before, doesn’t even own a razor of his own yet. It’s ironic, bordering amusing actually.

Yet, it suits him, doesn’t look like an illustrated chapter out of Alice in Wonderland. The draping posters on his walls and the cool eggshell paint that Stiles’ mom chose when they decided to repaint the house when he was six, illuminates his skin, complements Derek’s usual dull exterior.

“You do know that you’re trespassing, right?”

Derek shrugs and he doesn’t even look the least bit guilty. “Everyone’s got a little rebellious teenager in them on some days.”

A small grin breaks out on Stiles’ lips before he could admonish it away with a scowl and it’s with that pull of muscle at his face that surfaces the pain again—bright and irrefutable.

“What’s—” Stiles starts, voice raw and wet as those last words that Derek said echoes like a taunt in his head, _don’t you come crying to me_. So, he takes a large breath, feels it catching at the back of his throat, “What’s wrong with me?

Derek sighs, shoulders slumping a little. His brows are tight in a furrow but he doesn’t exactly look vexed or mildly irritated, it’s probably just his go-to expression. “Before we start, I just want to apologize for last week. That was unprofessional of me.”

Stiles blinks at him, “It’s fine.” He tries to deflect with a choked laugh but it comes out sounding really bitter in his ears. “Nothing that hasn’t been said to me before. We’ll just… bury it under the hatchet, yeah? No harm done.”

Derek doesn’t look convinced, probably expecting him to throw a tantrum. “Still.”

He doesn’t continue then, instead starts to pull the covers back until the cold air rushes into the warm nest Stiles has fortified and tucked himself in and it starts biting at his skin. Fingers that he has dreamt of wrap around his wrist, big hands encircling around the boniest part of his arm until it radiates a pleasant heat into his skin, like balm to his fever and ache.

“I guess I should do some explaining.” Derek finally says and he sounds guilty then. “I shouldn’t have allowed my emotions to hinder our counselling; sometimes it’s difficult to separate them with you. I just—”

His mouth goes thin.

Stiles watches him, lets himself lose into the trance of melted goodness twining around his bones and in the way Derek’s eyes flicker around his face, always lingering though, like he can never find a spot to just… settle on.

“Never mind, what was I saying?” Derek continues. “Anyway, they—you—well, there’s a system in The Sector, the hierarchical system, do you remember what I said about it?”

Stiles nods his head and that movement springs up a lick of flames in the ache that has been slowly receding in the last few minutes. A whimper escapes him, eyes squinting to house the tight coil of pain at the back of his head.

“Stay still.” Derek orders brusquely and Stiles stops shifting and those fingers around his wrist tighten when he complies. He’s not obeying, though; he simply doesn’t want to hurt himself even more. Also, he’s at a vulnerable position, okay? Derek could easily karate chop him into half and Stiles prefers being whole.

Derek makes a satisfied noise through his nose. “We didn’t have enough time for me to continue explaining during our second session.” He says. “I was saying there are three categories in The Sector, but in the first—Sector Alpha—that’s where you find the, uh, Alphas.”

Stiles snorts, tries to curl in the _no shit, Sherlock, you don’t say_ at the tip of his tongue.

Derek rolls his eyes at him. “They’re ingrained leaders, runs in their blood since the day they were born but only initiated and bred for maintaining that power, they have the vision to lead. However, not all alphas identifies themselves as leaders,” A beat. “I didn’t. But your mother did. She was a fierce leader.”

Stiles tries not to flinch away from his touch but Derek knows, knows him so well, because a thumb starts to smooth circles on the insides of his wrist, so terrifyingly tender as though Derek’s telling him that he knows, that the words just ran themselves off and he’s not going to continue.

“The second sector, The Betas, they’re trained warriors. They are the troupe that ignites The Sector’s greatest defences and offense. They are the four walls of our protection, the fortification for our very existence.”

“And lastly, in the third sector, the one which you’ve been initiated to—Sector Omega.” Derek starts and Stiles quickly realizes that the pain that he’s been enduring in the last few days have already come to a standstill. He feels good—normal, breath no longer wheezing but pulling in easily while his head clear and not pounding.

But he just doesn’t have it in him to tell Derek that just yet, wants to enjoy whatever he could get just a little longer. Yeah, he’s selfish. Who isn’t?

“There aren’t plenty of Omegas in the world since The Sector has been recognized in the world. They’ve always been viewed traditionally as weak—the lowest of the pyramid.” Derek says and there’s sincere heat in his voice, like he’s angry at that fact. “But—they’re the link between The Sector and the Humans because they _empathize._ Emotions run stronger in Omegas and it floods, overwhelms, but they always hold liberated views and their minds are the strongest.”

Stiles finally understands why he has _always_ talked back to teachers and those other idiotic therapists. Why he can never justify being average and just sit there, _taking_ it, because he’s been biologically created and programmed to react back, to fight for what he believes—for what he knows is _right._

“But—” Stiles speaks up. “What does that have to do with— _this?_ Whatever this is? Like I can barely breathe half the time. I don’t understand.”

Derek’s jaw tightens, “Because Omegas are the link. You were initiated to be, how do I put it, a _connection_ between them and us which is why the human touch is vital. That’s why many in The Sector view Omegas as weak—they look at that as a flaw.”

_Oh._

“And nobody touches me, that’s why.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, thinks he might even be holding his breath just to maintain that long drought of silence. Stiles doesn’t talk either, lets the quiet dwell and multiply between them and just presses his arm closer to Derek, lets his warmth diffuse into his bones, replacing that once sore tightening in his joints.

-

Before Derek leaves, he consults (or persuades) Stiles that they should start making a twice weekly meeting because of—yeah, circumstances apparently. So, they’re scheduled on Tuesdays and Fridays. However, the newly appointed day is in-home sessions.

Stiles doesn’t question much about it, feels surprisingly… thankful because he doesn’t want to be running around to places in town, hopping from one therapist to another. He doesn’t need that atop the pile of things that is wrong with him.

Like, visiting people for his supposedly messed up mentality is somewhat a norm.

-

The couple of weeks that follow aren’t really sunshine and daisies. Nothing gets immediately better (some days he goes on that YouTube video ‘It Gets Better’ just to thumbs it down again because he _can_ ) even though he’s doing double sessions with Derek.

Also, he’s been introduced more information about The Sector and Stiles soaks up in it, swims with the fascination because he can use that little realm of factoids to escape and not think how irrelevant he is in the scheme of things that is his _other_ life—the non-sector life, the without-Derek-touching-him life.

With that, Stiles soon comes to realize how little he actually gets touched. How his father hasn’t even pressed a vague imprint of bodily heat against his skin for the last six years, not even a casual pat on the shoulder or a brush of arms when they’re crossing paths in the living hall.

It shouldn’t deter or have any relevance to how he feels because he _has_ mourned. He has paid his sorrows with tears and anguish that afternoon so he doesn’t understand why it’s difficult for him to cope. Why some nights he would lay in bed with his own fingers ringing tight around his wrist, digging crescent moons into the thin skin until he falls into a dreamless sleep.

But Stiles knows—knows that he’s just this angry kid who hasn’t been deserving of affection since her because he’s difficult to deal with. Has too many problems going on for him—the pills that he has to take for his anxiety, for the insomnia, for the impulsive aggression, and a whole list that Chanel has taught him about.

He’s not fixable, thinks that maybe some toys are _meant_ to be broken.

And that guy was totally right—McCall? Yeah, Scott McCall, so was Derek. Stiles is just a kid who doesn’t know any better, a kid who has their psychologist on speed dial instead of some guy or girl they’re mooning after—a goddamn kid who does nothing but pray on stars and wishes for an alternative every night.

The shaking then starts. It’s not too obvious the first few nights when he’s in bed waiting for sleep to come but soon, it feels like his entire body is a standstill vibration. The quakes never really stop until Derek has a hand back on his wrist and then he informs Stiles that he’s touched starved.

He doesn’t say it in those words per-se, but kind, measurable with an ounce of sympathy.

“It’s okay,” He said with softened eyes. “You have my number—just call me anytime whenever it gets bad and you can’t fall asleep.” Then he brushes a thumb over the thudding pulse of his wrist. “It might help.”

So, Stiles does—firstly he does it on every alternate night. Talks to Derek on the phone about mindless things like the moon and how he used to think it was made up cheese and that whenever he had a slice of cheese in his toast, he’ll say proudly that he has a part of the night’s sun in his tummy. Or how he used to put his face near a cup of soda and let the gas fizzle against his cheeks.

When the awkward pauses that used to compromise during their twenty minute phone calls begin to ebb away and in its stead is familiarity, comfort in hearing Derek’s sleep mused voice and when he’s on the verge of falling asleep, he makes these soft snorts through the tinny of the call, Stiles starts talking.

Tells him about the bad days—the ones that many therapists has been forcing him to talk about but has kept mum about it.

Stiles starts talking on a cold November, tells him on bated breath and the quiet snores from Derek that during the days when nobody’s home and the silence gets too deafening in his ears, he’ll put on his mom’s favourite carpenters’ song and recall the days where they spend one too many hours in the kitchen baking ready-made muffins with vanilla frosting.

There’s one night when Derek isn’t asleep yet but regardless, he musters the courage to talk anyway.

Stiles tells him how he used to spend hours at the hospital and whenever his mom is wheeled into the room where she receives chemotherapy, he had thought of pulling away all the needles and tubes and _pain_ because they didn’t work at all—could see it in her face each time whenever it starts to hurt.

Derek stays silent throughout the entire phone call even when Stiles starts to tear up, hands shaking with an intensity that he has to use his shoulders to hold up the phone. He quietly mutters that he knows he’s the reason why his mother is dead, why she continued with the treatments, because she wanted to live—for _him_ , wanted to see her baby boy grow up to be a handsome man, wedded into a happy life.

When he’s on the verge of sleep, tear tracts already drying on his cheeks, he hears a small, gusted out breath and Derek’s soft voice, “She was so proud of you, though. Claudia was fierce as an Alpha but whenever you were around, she stripped all of that status and became the mother that _loves._ And she loved you, so wholly. Don’t blame yourself and don’t second guess it, Stiles. You were— _are_ meant to be loved. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The last thought he has before he gives way to slumber is that Derek, a man in his mid to late twenties, is probably just saying that to amuse a patient. And that’s what he is— _a patient_ , who isn’t even paying him any money for these sessions.

The tender rush of heated melancholy surprises him.

-

Stiles doesn’t know when the underlying opposition against Derek goes away and gets replaced with soft appreciation and taking delight during their sessions. Their appointments at Hale Insight are formal, hands over the desk and they talk in loud, verbal cues but when they’re in Stiles’ room, dank with teenage sweat and come, its soft eyes and skirted hands under the covers.

There was a day where Derek doesn’t hold him at the wrist. Instead, entwines fingers around his, palm against palm, until they start to get clammy with sweat and Stiles is looking at their hooked hands with rising wariness because this is… more. This roams along the lines where he has never walked upon and his heart stutters, palpitates like a racing rabbit.

He doesn’t know if he’s projecting it because of the time they’ve spent sharing it together—the long phone conversations, him knowing about Derek’s family, each and every one of them, from siblings to relatives and all their specific, unique quirks. He doesn’t understand what’s going on because it’s new, and there’s teenage headiness that clouds his mind and for the first time, he’s _content._

Stiles wants to asks, there and then, if Derek does this with other patients, holds their hand and look at them like they’re worth saving—if he does it with them too. If he talks to them every night and share untold secrets.

(Stiles has an irrational fear of roaches because his mother used to put on Joe’s Apartment every week while Derek hates not living life to the fullest. Stiles made a ‘yolo’ joke and Derek threatened to end the call.)

Both of them don’t bring up that day and Derek doesn’t hold his hold his hands again but sometimes their fingers would brush against each other and Stiles shivers with that light collision—yeah, that’s what his stupid teenage hormones is calling it.

A fucking _heart_ collision.

Then, on a Friday where he’s walking through those thin wooden doors after his usual three rapid knocks, Stiles gathers up that silly teenage courage that he has been trying to beat down to submission the last week and just goes for it. Instead of walking to his usual seat on Friday, he strides over behind Derek’s desk, fists him at his stupid matching tie and dress shirt, pressing dried lips against his.

Derek doesn’t push him away, but he doesn’t respond enthusiastically, just grips him at the back of his neck, fingers scrunching at the small of his hair and kisses back lightly, unsure movements of lips pecking and holding.

Stiles finally pulls his lips away with a soft smack, saliva pulling between them because yeah, he’s a slobbery kisser apparently and Derek’s just looking at him with glassy, bright eyes that makes him utterly lost.

He blurts out, “Don’t throw me out.”

“I won’t.” Derek finally says and Stiles is still so close to him, nose still brushing against each other, forehead resting against his, that he can smell the faint hint of mint in his breath. “But I can’t continue doing these sessions with you anymore.”

“I—” Stiles jerks back and eyes widened with threat. “Please, you can’t—”

His mind flashes to those late night phone calls, these sessions where he feels like he’s finally got things sorted out for him in his initiation role of an Omega and never being able to have them again. The premature loss of Derek that he’s feeling makes his breath hitch, the urge to turn back time comes scarily strong, to never know how stubble feels scratching against his chin and the way their lips slot so imperfectly that it’s so heartbreakingly good.

“Stiles,” Derek cuts in, in that commanding tone (his alpha tone, Stiles thinks) that makes his bones protest and the urge to whine is painful to reign in. “You kissed me and that’s a breach in our patient and advisory contract.”

Stiles hasn’t felt like running away in a long time, but for the first time in months, he wants to do it. Just like the first session they shared when everything got a little too overwhelming and the urge to burst through that door makes its known.

“I liked it, Stiles.” Derek finally says, assuring, and Stiles collapses against his chest, knees buckling until he’s sitting on his lap. It’s too much and his mind is reeling, the familiar sandalwood scent of Derek’s cologne filling in his nose like unreserved intimacy.

“But I can’t continue being your counsellor because it’s unprofessional and your initiation isn’t complete yet. Fuck.” Derek gusts out, hoarse, like he just had an epiphany. “I’ve been so unprofessional.”

Stiles peers up at him, asking dubiously. “In-home visits aren’t a thing, are they?”

“No,” Derek tells quietly. “No, they’re not.”

He doesn’t need to ask about the phone calls because he already knows the answer for that and something akin to happiness flushes through his body, brimming and whole.

-

Stiles gets immediately assigned to Dr. Lahey by next week, a previous associate and was initiated under Derek—his first omega. Erica looks at him suspiciously when he’s sitting at the waiting area on Friday, legs crossed and fingers bunched tight together in his hoodie pocket and she  has this glint in her dark eyes, like she just… _knows._

They’ve shared a profound relationship the past few months and Stiles knows it’s time to take it to the next level. He walks up to the counter and introduces himself properly, without stuttering and he watches the way she flicks her hair behind her shoulder, hand thrusting out for a simple handshake.

They swap numbers and Stiles realizes that he just made his first friend.

-

Dr. Lahey, or Isaac, he prefers, teaches him a lot in the weeks that come. The uncompromised feelings that Stiles was unable to explain in words is understood immediately by Isaac because had first-hand experience—the jitters that develops and burns into the morning, thoughts that flutter in and out of mind until it gets too difficult to keep up, and the urge to _belong_ comes so strongly on some days that he can’t even move.

Isaac tells him that he came from an abusive family, instead of a good human touch from the receiving end, all he had was ache and for a long time, he thought it was normal until Derek helped him through his initiation, coached him through those painful years.

He had a sad look in his eyes, no—not sad, more like wistful. Like, thinking back of a far memory that hurts but it doesn’t get him anymore, not with an intensity that it usually comes with. Stiles knows that better than anyone because some days, he still looks at the badge his dad leaves out on the kitchen counter and just… _hopes._

-

In late November, Chanel pitches a family counselling session instead of a conference meeting they usually hold at the end of the year. She says that Stiles doesn’t need to do sessions anymore, can see it in the way how he’s been more vocal and hasn’t succumbed to anger whenever he so likes in the past year.

Stiles refuses it six times, tells her repeatedly _‘no’_.

Then during a day when Derek has board meetings running the entire day in the office and his phone lies silent on his bed side after an emotionally taxing session with Janice. The past accustomed silence that he hasn’t come in contact in weeks fills the house, the faint whisk of Derek’s scent, his own deodorant and the rank of his father’s absence and the gripe of alcohol still lingering in the kitchen sink.

He says yes on the seventh.

-

John walks into Chanel’s office warily with a look in his eyes that is screaming that he wants out, doesn’t want to be here at all is wholly evident. Chanel sees it, of course she does, Stiles knows nothing gets missed by her—she’s too observant, mind probably whirring a thousand miles a second with deciphered codes of an individual’s body language.

They shake hands cordially and then seat themselves down on the chaise lounge, putting a space between son and father while Chanel is seated across them, in the arm chair; and in her lap is a little black note book that Stiles hasn’t seen in a while.

“Sheriff,” Chanel nods at him, smiling.

“Ms Green,” John returns, shifting around while Stiles shares a secret grin with Chanel.

Then, they start talking.

-

Stiles starts to lose it in the midst of the session by screaming, actually. John has a faint look of betrayal in his face, thin eyebrows shooting up when he realized that he got set up and he starts stuttering, “Christ—is this some kind of, you know, what do those kids call it? An intervention?” He paws at his face. “Ms Green, what the hell is this? I’m paying you not to play games with my son, you know.”

“Oh, really?” Stiles yells indignantly. “So what are you paying them for, huh? To _cure_ me?” He spits. “I’m not some fucking broken shit, you know? I am a _person_ , if you have forgotten. Not that you would know anyway, seeing as you’re _never_ around!”

John narrows his eyes at him, jaw clenching. “We both know that you’ve had anger problems since Cl—since she passed and I’m just… helping you, kid.” Stiles scoffs at him. “I don’t want you grow up and still be angry all the time, and look, they’ve helped you, haven’t they? I mean, not just with these sessions but the rest too. You’re better now.”

“Of course,” Stiles injects mockingly. “Because the pills help so much and those other idiots that you pay five hundred dollars a month has really made me ‘see the light’. Thanks, dad. I’m not your messed up little boy anymore. So, are you going to start bringing me to the station again? Become the poster son for the Sheriff?”

“Stiles,” Chanel says quietly and he knows he’s pushing on buttons now, edging it close to the limit that’s probably going to set him back on a couple of sessions but this— _anger_ that has been in him for years, all the contained anguish and hurt from being thrown aside because he just isn’t _good enough_ for his father.

John is just sitting quietly on the seat, face buried deep into his hands, just taking the impact of everything Stiles has to say so he just continues—pelts everything out like venom twisted words.

“And you know what?” Stiles hiccups, hands shaking at his sides while he’s certain mucus are probably dripping on his shirt.  “You are a _horrible_ parent. Yeah, you may be an excellent officer of law for this small town but hands down, the worst father a child could ever have.” He wants to add that he’s just coming up shortly behind Isaac’s father but he doesn’t say that out, that little tidbit just kept for him.

“He gets it, Stiles.” Chanel tells and that’s the first time that Stiles really sees her. Not as a psychologist, or someone whom he has shared interesting, liberated thoughts with but a person. Just that—and he realizes he did what Derek had done with his mother, placed her on a pedestal, so untouchable but here she sits, eyes red-rimmed.

“Do something, daddy.” Stiles chokes out, quivering and he wipes the snot on his hand. “ _Anything_ , because I don’t think I can’t do this anymore, can’t live in that house knowing that the only parent I have left in the world doesn’t—doesn’t _love_ me.”

John finally cracks and his first sob comes out, “I do, god, kid. _I do_ —I just didn’t know what to do. You were eight and having panic attacks and I freaked out—I couldn’t do it, then.”

Stiles slumps back on the seat, pressing the heel of his palm on his eyes and catching the wetness pool and dribble down his forearm. The coil of the brutal truth hitting him at all corners, jutting him painfully and wrecking. He knew—he fucking knew, but yet.

“Sheriff,” Chanel speaks up when the silence drags on a little too long. “This wasn’t set up to make you feel threatened, but Stiles’ has been my patient for two years now and he has grown so much. I’ve never wanted to set up a duo session because I knew he wasn’t ready but he is now, and if you can’t rise up to your responsibilities, I need to inform child services because Stiles cannot continue living in an abusive environment.”

Stiles hears his dad muttering out in disbelief.

“He’s a bright young man and what you’ve been situating him is poisonous.” Chanel continues. “I admire you, Sheriff, and any person who is willing to put their lives at stake to protect others will always be something I look up to but—”

“I’ll change,” John garbles out and he looks wild, eyes flickering at Stiles and then back on Chanel, trying to find a way out—to make things go right. “I’ll be better, I promise. I’ll start doing sessions with you and Stiles. God, just, don’t take my child away from me. You can’t—”

“Okay, John.” Chanel cuts in. “You need to get a grip on yourself. You son needs you.”

John looks at him and all Stiles sees are the wrinkles that he has been hiding away from the past six years, folds so glaringly obvious at the corners of his mouth and eyes. There are more gray hairs at the crown of his head and he doesn’t look like a man that’s just hitting his fifties—he looks like a man who has everything to lose and nothing to gain.

“Jesus— _Stiles_ ,” And his dad wrenches him in, closes the distance between them and holds him tight around his arms. Stiles whimpers against his neck, the finality of having his dad hug him, of smelling familiar scents of baby powder and his mother’s old perfume on his skin that makes him start tearing up. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know. I’m going to do better, god. Claudia probably hates me up in heaven. You were right. I’m so sorry, kid. I’ll do better.”

He continues repeating the words like a mantra and Stiles fists his hands into the back of his dad’s police uniform, anchoring himself there because it’s been six years and he’s been depraved of his father’s touch.

-

Things don’t immediately get better at home, but there are subtle changes. His dad doesn’t take up alternative double shifts at the station anymore, only calls one in when they’re lacking of staff, and he starts making dinners during the days Stiles doesn’t have an appointment—which also, the only one he’s currently seeing is Channel, and Isaac, but the latter is still unknown by his dad.

They spend Christmas around the fire place, passing around potatoes and bean sprouts, and after they do the dishes together with his dad on rag duty because he knows how bad he is at washing the plates.

Stiles gets an empty photo frame as a gift for his dad, a fancy type that they could hang at the kitchen and when his dad quirks a brow at him, he shrugs, saying, “For making new memories.”

His dad gives him a small smile and then passes him his gift. It’s small, badly wrapped but Stiles hasn’t received one in ages—hasn’t been able to tear wrapping paper in years—so he digs into it, pulling at the corners until the sound of ripping coerce with the sound of burning wood and the flutter of wind wheezing through the window sills.

At the end of the night, he doesn’t care that he has a new pair of shoes because his dad finally realized that his other pair already belongs in the garbage but it’s the sentiment behind it, that he _noticed_ —that he cares enough to know that Stiles exists.

It’s good enough for him.

-

As Stiles slowly repairs the relationship with his father, Derek continues to be there for him, not in a boyfriend sense because they haven’t kissed since that day in the office, but more like guiding whenever he needs it.

Derek never gives into his every whimsy and will not hesitate to pull him back when he starts to slip. Especially after Stiles started yelling at him, calling him names because Derek suggested that he should apologize to Scott but then he knows that it’s unprecedented anger—his ego talking because apologizing meant he did something wrong, which he knows that he did but he’s a teenager, he doesn’t like confronting his faults.

But, he does, eventually.

Stiles approaches Scott when he’s in the locker room, gearing up for a lacrosse practice and he mumbles out an apology. Scott looks at him weirdly, probably trying to piece together the causal reasoning behind it but when he does, he beams at him, says that it’s fine—that we all lose our heads something, even he does, which is why he takes up so many sport activities.

Stiles laughs at that, the tension between them finally breaking and he doesn’t think those harsh words anymore but those previous yearnings to be like him—no, to have him as a _friend_ comes back strong again. So, he goes through with it, invites him back to his place to wreck his old PlayStation console. He makes his second friend that day and Stiles doesn’t stop smiling the entire day—it’s the first night he doesn’t call Derek.

Stiles doesn’t want to say that Derek saved him because he didn’t. That disregards all the efforts he had done for himself on trying to become better, on not being angry and taking those first steps and seeking out help—which he did.

It’s because he took that first step and Derek, Chanel, (and maybe his other therapists, fine) pushed him in the correct direction, urging him if he ever does fall, so Stiles is thankful. That he’s living to be the man that his mother wanted him to be—happy, and sure, some nights he still feels that dreadful pang of loss, but he’s _human._

An omega—he’ll always have that interlinked connection that would dig deep into his bones, never leaving and never withering. It doesn’t get better because that’s fucking cliché and he still thumbs down that silly video because _sometimes_ being hopeful on a future that is unpredictable is bad, but he’s content now.

Life still has its ups and downs but it’s _okay_.

He doesn’t return to a solemn house anymore, his phone now rings with text messages that are mostly by Erica telling him in detailed, gruesomeness about her periods and he share notes with Scott, whom _apparently_ is his best friend now.

Figures.

-

It’s been three months since his father and he had that session with Chanel and Stiles realizes that the whiskey bottle has been untouched for an entire month now, so he sits down at the dining table and slowly unveils the last hidden vestiges of his life. He slowly tells with carefully picked words that he’s an Omega and is a part of The Sector, and that Derek Hale had been helping him with his initiation. Isaac too.

His dad blinks at him owlishly, “Hale?” He frowns but Stiles knows it’s nothing bad, his eyebrows just do that sometimes. “Your… mother knew him. Christ, I’ve always thought that you and your mother were splitting images but I never knew it ran that deep. She never really talked about The Sector, always kept it separate with her home life.”

Stiles gives a sheepish smile, “Sorry for keeping it a secret from you. I just—” He struggles finding the words but his dad cuts in.

“It’s okay, son.” John assures and he puts a hand on top of his, tightening just once before he lets go. “I understand. I wasn’t… around, at all, and I’m trying to do better. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“You’re doing something.” Stiles nods. “That was better that I could ever bargained for.”

His dad gives him a pained look and sometimes that awkward tension still runs in between them, the silence clouding in but they’re working on it. They’re better now, those first few days after that appointment, conversations were cutting and simple but—they’re good. He doesn’t need much, knows that his father is a good man but sometimes, it really is difficult having a kid that thinks, speaks and _feels_ too fast.

“You should invite Hale for dinner and that Lahey kid.” John finally quips up. “They’re good kids.”

“Yeah, they are.” Stiles smiles fondly.

-

It’s his seventeenth birthday and Stiles has a barbeque grill going on in the backyard of his house and a few guests are roaming around the living hall, settling themselves to a movie that Boyd, Erica’s current boyfriend (or was it fuck buddy, he can never keep up with her) picked out to watch.

He’s alone at the back when Derek crowds behind him, circles his arms around his waist and presses chaste pecks along the side of his neck. Stiles feels the tingle of each kiss seep deep into his pores, buzzing under and he melts into the touch, curl his back against Derek’s chest and receive whatever he can take.

“I’ve missed you.” Derek hums and Stiles snorts.

“You just saw me yesterday. Not my fault that my dad stole you away and lured you with a tempting live televised baseball game. It’s your true kryptonite.”

A comforting silence drags between them while Stiles flips the patty on the grill, listens to the way the meat sizzles and the charcoal burning. Their relationship hasn’t really gone anywhere since That Day (yes, it’s now listed as that) and he knows Derek’s waiting around a little bit, aware of their age difference but Stiles is okay with that so he just acknowledges each yearn with fleeting touches and hand holding under table tops.

“I want to kiss you,” Derek says quietly. “I’ve always wanted to kiss you. Does that make me a bad person?”

Stiles places the spatula that he has in his hand at the small round table beside the grill and spin around in Derek’s arms so that he’s facing him. Their noses brush together so achingly close that if he leans in, maybe take that one tiny step, their lips would mesh together and they’ll be whole—good.

But he knows Derek, knows that he’ll go home and regret it because Stiles is too young—and after all, he’s supposed to be helping him, not ruining him (oh, but that just sounds so good and Stiles only can muster that much of self-control as a teenager) so he doesn’t.

Instead, he whispers, terribly soft and mutters the words across his cheeks.

“You guided me when it was dark, held me down when I was an enemy of myself and you’ve promised me nothing you could never offer. So, no, Derek Hale, you’re not a bad person.” He says. “You’re a good man—a good Alpha—and I wouldn’t ask for more.”

Derek’s eyes flutters shut as he nuzzles against his temples, mumbling, “Nothing more, and nothing less, Stiles.”

“I know,” Stiles replies. “For you, too.”


End file.
